


twist beat beat / beat twist twist

by salrokka



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-18 00:55:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3550067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salrokka/pseuds/salrokka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two scenes from Solas and Lavellan's relationship, before and after the break up. One shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	twist beat beat / beat twist twist

**Author's Note:**

> Quenyah is nonbinary.

**I. before**  
There was a loud ruckus from the main hall of Skyhold—cheering, whooping, two elves on their hands with their feet in the air (one not so elfy, one entirely, unavoidably elfy), a general feeling of competition sharpening the once lazy mountain evening. Solas wandered out of the atrium he had all but formally claimed as his own—the cluttered desk and painted walls like the Inquisition flags that now dotted the landscapes of southern Thedas. He leaned against the archway to observe the spectacle. The two elves mentioned previously he now more easily identified as the Inquisitor and Sera, and they were indeed walking among a slowly growing crowd on their hands, their faces red with rushed blood, their mouths tensed from exertion. He caught Lavellan’s eye, she smiled (frowned?), then her arms gave out from under her and she fell to the floor, improvising a landing that did not come without a certain amount of roguish grace and charm.

The crowd whooped and cheered and Sera fell to the ground only seconds later, quick to dance away from the defeated elven Inquisitor. “Quizzy lost! S’what bein’ too elfy will get ya, yeah?” She snorted then pointed to a particularly pretty human girl in the group that had been watching the match intensely. “You! Wanna make out?”

Quenyah Lavellan emerged from the crowed and grinned up at Solas from a distance, saving him from the knowledge of what would transpire immediately afterwards, as his attention was now totally diverted. She sauntered up to him, still looking slightly mischievous in a way he now found himself appreciating. “You’re the reason I lost.”

He turned his head slightly at an angle. “Ah? In what way did I contribute to Sera’s victory, so that I may be more careful not to encourage it in the future?”

"You looked at me."

"Had I known I was capable of producing such a reaction, I would have been more careful with such a brazen act."

Quenyah laughed and walked past him into the rotunda, inviting herself into his space and sinking comfortably into the couch that sat up against the wall, its red upholstering warmly lit by candles on the nearby table. The crowds were dispersing now—it was late, and the only fun to be had any longer would be found in the tavern. The silence was only interrupted by murmuring guests as they passed through the hall, now only a way point instead of the main event’s stage.

"Forgive me, but how much of this competition was inspired by drink?" Solas said, moving towards her.

She opened her eyes and acted affronted, peering up at him while clutching her chest. “You wound me! I had only one drink with Dorian—he insisted.” Solas tilted his head, a question. “Two. Four. Four glasses of wine with Dorian, but that was ages ago. You should know that my competitive spirit needs no liquid encouragement. Sera was the one to suggest a walking handstand competition, and how was I to refuse?”

"As the leader of the Inquisition, it would not be dignified for me to engage in such childish games?" He mused, as if reading from a secret code of conduct that the Inquisitor should have read and memorized. "Just a thought." Solas sat down on the couch and Quenyah laid her head on his lap, stretching out along the full length of the seat. He threaded his fingers through her red curls, running a thumb along the shaved edge. Their movements were familiar yet unrehearsed, as if this was their regular state and all other moments in the day led to only this one, its natural conclusion.

Quenyah closed her eyes, sinking into the ease of their conversation. “I’ve been playing childish games with my friends all day. In fact, you’re my last stop.”

"What game did you have in mind?"

"A question game. I ask one, you ask one—total honesty." His hand stopped playing with her hair and she could feel him become slightly more tense. "Relax, ma vhenan. Only one rule: nothing too deep. Shallow questions only. And I get to start.” Solas agreed, tentatively, still unable to fully give up his carefully laid and deeply entrenched walls. Quenyah opened her eyes, eager to begin. “Right, first question! What… color was your hair?” Solas laughed as some of his muscles unwound—nerves unpinched, walls no longer nervous.

"Black."

"I like that. It suits you. Your turn."

"Ah." He looked contemplative for a moment, then: "Tell me of one of the elves from your clan."

"Sylen." She said without missing a beat, accessing the name at the front of her mind nimbly. "She was the First of our clan and we were… we were very close. Sort of like you and I. I have never been especially good at history, even elven lore, and I had no magical expertise. She, on the other hand, was not especially capable physically.” She laughed, briefly enveloped in memories. “We spent every unscheduled moment together.” Quenyah breathed in deeply and pretended to be looking over the murals on the walls, though her eyes were unfocused. “Sylen stopped writing me letters soon after I became Inquisitor.” They were silent for a moment. She reached up to touch the jawbone that lay on his chest and felt the heat radiating from his body. “Ah, too deep there. Not sure if that was my fault or your fault, but let’s stick to the rules of the game, yes?”

"Quenyah…"

"Right, so how long was this black hair?"

Solas laughed and Quenyah grinned back, pleased at his ability to play along and happy to hear his laugh. The tension smoothed over with their combined efforts (her effort to keep it light, his effort to keep her happy). “I wore it very long at one point, much longer than yours. I shaved the sides, too, much like you have. It became too tedious for me to keep up with at some point and I have kept it as such ever since.”

Quenyah sat up now, prepared to fully participate in their game now that it was on track. Momentarily, she paused to admire the way the candlelight glinted on his eyes. Her skin tingled, an effect of their proximity. “Good. Properly shallow answer.” She gave up a lop-sided smile. “Your turn, again.”

He took longer to form a question this time. “Last night, when I found you in the vault’s library, what were you reading?” Quenyah felt her body temperature rise and her face burn. Solas knit his eyebrows. “ _Ir abelas, vhenan_. Forgive me, I—”

The Inquisitor had already risen from the couch, turning away from him and absentmindedly leaning up against his desk, trying and failing to appear unconcerned and nonchalant. “You’re not very good at this game, are you?”

Solas remained on the couch, attempting to cool the tension again with his distance, but was now leaning forward, angled towards her, unable to remain inactive. “ _Vhenan_ , I did not mean to pry. You are allowed your secrets.”

She rolled her thumb across the wood of his desk, biting and pulling with her teeth at the dead skin on her lips, not yet healed from the cold winds in Emprise. “It isn’t really a secret. Just a little embarrassing.” She inhaled and fixed her stare on the ground. “I was reading about Andraste, actually. When this all started I knew nothing of her, and it began only out of general curiosity.” Quenyah paused, blinking, as if she were attempting to test the temperature of bath water before getting in. “It is… It is very difficult to watch yourself becoming some sort of historic religious figure from a distance. Sometimes I feel as if my voice has been taken away from me, as if my body is functioning on its own and I have no control over my own fate. Andraste’s Herald or not, at the very least I feel some connection to her—as if she is the only one who could possibly understand what I am experiencing.” She looked up and only then seemed to remember his presence. Solas had moved closer to her, and now placed a hand on her arm without the same reservations he had shown earlier; he met her gaze directly.

The way he looked at her suggested that he understood, but how could that be true? Quenyah’s body responded fluidly, and she tucked herself underneath his arm. She had carefully pulled back just the corner edge of the veil that hid her heart, and he had embraced her. _Beat beat._

Tenderly, gently, he kissed her on the forehead. Their hearts warmed each other.

"Solas," She began, quietly, tentatively. "I want you to know that I would never intentionally make you uncomfortable. I intend to earn your trust. However long it takes, however many childish games I must force you to play." _Twist._

He pulled her in closer and rested his cheek on her forehead, wrapping his arms around her. “My heart.”

_Beat beat._  
Beat beat.  
Beat beat. 

_Twist._

\----

**II. after**

He found her in the main hall by the sound of her laugh. She was in the corner near the fireplace Varric frequently occupied, and indeed the dwarf sat across from her now. She was leaning into the table expectantly and it was clear from her expression that she was enthralled in one of Varric’s endless stories from Kirkwall. Her skin was clear, bright. “Isabela, the Hero of Ferelden, and Leliana? What did Hawke say?”

"I don’t think I’ve ever seen her look more fondly at Isabela in my life. Impressed, really. Daisy kept asking what we were talking about and no one had the heart to tell her."

She laughed again, completely and without any reserve, then—she noticed him approaching. She did not look at him directly, but it was clear in the way her posture shifted, suddenly cold, stiff, distant. The laugh was stifled. Varric looked up, perceptive enough to notice the change and curious enough to search for the stimuli. “Ah, Solas. Care to join us? I was just telling the Inquisitor—”

She didn’t meet his eye, still. There was a caraft of wine on the table and two glasses, half full. _Four. Four glasses of wine with—_ “My apologies, Varric. I came only to deliver a message to Q— to the Inquisitor.” She looked up at him, now, if only out of courtesy.

"Deliver it, then." A statement.

"A letter has come for you from Wycome. It was signed by Sylen."

Forgetting herself for a moment, Quenyah nearly knocked over the chair she was sitting on in her hurry to stand. She blushed and gathered herself quickly, clearing her throat before speaking. “Do you—” Her voice squeaked and she dug a nail into her palm. “Do you know what it says?” He looked down, a negative answer. “You’ll have to excuse me, Varric.”

"Another time, Lavellan."

She moved past Solas hurriedly and he instinctively followed, then reached for her arm. She yanked her body away from him, then finally met and held his gaze. “I have no need for accompaniment to the War Room, Solas. At this point, you would think even a child would know where it was.” Her voice was light, but her body betrayed her. Her limbs were taut, still recoiling from his touch. Her eyes, usually honey, were incredulous and looked into his own as if her existence was an act of defiance. She was ice; she was veiled by smoke. Something inside his chest clenched. _Twist_.

"Ah," The corner of his mouth twitched. "You are right. Of course." She walked away and he lingered, hands clasped behind his back, allowing himself just a moment to watch her before returning to the atrium.

_Beat beat. Twist._

_Beat. Twist. Twist._


End file.
